Little Boy Lost
by silver ruffian
Summary: Summary: Sam wasn’t the only Winchester infant infected with the Demon’s blood.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: It's **International Disturbed Peoples' Day**, so I thought it would be fitting to post this today to commemorate the occasion. This bad boy has been hiding out on my computer for some time now, so I decided to unleash it. Written quickly and unbeta'd, any mistakes or plot holes are mine, all mine. This is a oneshot. In two parts, I know. At the present time I have no plans to turn this into a multi-chap, but hey, that could change. Thanks to those folks who put this one on their story alerts. You never know. 

It's always bugged me that Dean was first born, but was passed over for some reason. Until Kripke sees fit to explain why, that leaves the door open for me to indulge in some pretty wild speculation. This is an AU, a weird hybrid of Hurt!Dean, Twisted!Dean, and Twisted!Sam. I've also AU'd some of the critters that escaped from the Devil's Gate; sorry, show, but I figure that not all of them were wraiths and demons. As always, dialogue from "Croatoan" taken from Jensen Ross Ackles Fans episode summaries by Aurelia.

Summary: Sam wasn't the only Winchester infant infected with the Demon's blood.

Warnings: Weirdness, cussing, blood licking (yep!), and, of course, the angst.

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. It pains me to say that.

_**Little Boy Lost, Part 1 of 2**_

_**By silver ruffian**_

_**000**_

Once they get to Bobby's place Sam sits slumped over behind the wheel of the Impala, and the only thing that keeps him awake and alert during the drive is the thought that _Dean'll kill me if I wreck his baby_.

He turns the ignition off and the girl rumbles off into silence. Sam's dimly aware of Bobby gently pulling him out of the Impala and walking him up the steps to the house.

The next hour is a complete blur.Sam doesn't even remember stumbling into Bobby's spare room and face planting hard onto the bed.

Sam dreams of killing Jake, over and over and over again. Jake has yellow eyes and a different face sometimes.

Sometimes it's Mary Winchester, and as he shoots her Sam's throat nearly closes up from rage and frustration. He has a hard time pulling air into his lungs but that doesn't stop him from pulling the trigger.

Repeatedly.

He doesn't ask her why she did what she did, feels that no explanation she could give would be good enough to explain why she doomed her sons, why she betrayed John.

Deep down inside he'd always felt that the bitch wasn't worth all the suffering they'd gone through anyway.

Sam always lowers the gun when Jake/Mary's face and body shifts into Dean, all wild-eyed with pain and confusion.

Sam sleeps for a day and a half.

_**000**_

_It's Mom, and there's nothing to be scared of. He recognizes her scent, even though he still can't see very well. She's so big, and he stares up at her goggle-eyed. His fat little hands ball up into fists, and he moves his head slightly from side to side as he tries so hard to focus. _

"_Like mother's milk," the man standing over his crib whispers, and the taste floods his mouth, makes his eyes widen in surprise. It tickles his insides so much he giggles, kicks his legs a little. _

_Mary strokes his baby soft skin with infinite love and care, and her face brightens as she smiles at him. She leans over, brushes her lips across his cheek. "It's all right, baby. It's okay. It feels good, doesn't it? It won't hurt, I promise." _

Twenty seven years and six months later the vision brings Dean Winchester to his knees.

"Mom? Oh, God…M-Mom?" Dean gasps. His ragged breathing echoes loud and harsh inside his head. The ground tilts slowly around him, and his fingers twitch open. The Demon's smile gets even wider as the Colt falls uselessly to the ground, and

"I'm flattered," it simpers, "but…no. That was me. Me and dear sweet Mary. You remember _now_, don't you, Dean?"

Black smoke swirls around them both, blacker than the starless night sky above, screaming, twisting around the headstones, howling in the night wind. The sulfur stench is so strong Dean can't even smell it anymore.

Wraiths slip by, silent, purposeful. They're reverse shadows. See-through people, faded out nearly transparent grayish white where flesh and color should be. Some wear old time Western clothing, some wear clothing centuries older than that.

Out of the corner of his eye Dean sees something crab-like scuttling low across the ground. He sees leathery grey skin, and sharp jagged teeth. His heart hammers away in his chest and the fear that rises up in him makes his breath hitch deep in his chest.

He wants to get back up. He doesn't want to be on his knees in front of this bastard, wants to meet his fate standing on his own two feet. He tries to move, and he can't.

Azazel reaches into Dean's left jacket pocket. Dean feels a whisper of steel slice through the air at his neck, and he watches his protection amulet fall into the dry brown grass at his knees. He stares at the upturned little horned face, and he's confused.

That should be around his neck.

Dad said never to take it off. _Never_.

Dean looks up and immediately wishes that he hadn't. Their eyes lock, murky yellow and confused hazel green. His body's heavy, his limbs are useless, and he knows that the damn Demon's the only reason he's still upright and not flat on his face among the headstones.

The Demon licks the knife blade, folds the knife up, and it holds its bloody wrist out to him. Dean stares dully at it. He runs his tongue over his lips, and his skin feels dry and chapped. His throat's sore, almost raw from thirst. His body has suddenly turned traitor. Dean closes his eyes as he leans forward, into the heat of the damned thing's body, takes that slick dark wetness into his mouth and licks at it with his tongue.

"That's my boy," Azazel purrs. It cu[s the back of Dean's head with its other hand. "My beautiful, beautiful boy."

The taste on his lips, oddly sharp, salty and sweet, slices into Dean's skin with an electric jolt. It flows out to every cell in his body, makes him feel so warm and alive. He feels _good._ Oh God, he hasn't felt this_ good_, this _alive,_ this _strong_ in a long, long time. So full of power and life, like there's nothing he can't do, and he has all the time in the world to do it.

The Demon pulls its wrist away, and Dean whispers hoarsely, "…f-fuck y-you…" His voice cracks, and the bastard laughs. Dean can't tell if it's an act of defiance, or anger at the damn thing pulling its hand away.

…_that s-shit about M-Mom…d-don't…b-believe it. Don't. F-fucker's in m' h-head s-somehow… _

"Don't need to mind-fuck you, Deano," the Demon says cheerfully. "That memory you had was the real deal. I know you don't want to hear about dear old Mom having feet of clay, but she _was_ only human, after all. I have you, I have Sam. It's always nice to have a matching set. Sam's the best of _his_ generation, and you're the best of _yours_. I'm not lying about that. Your body knows the truth, Dean. It does."

Azazel bends his mouth to the shell of Dean's ear. "Blood calls to blood,"the Demonwhispers, and a wave of heat washes over Dean, _through_ him, makes him moan deep in his throat. His back arches slowly, and he opens himself up in a gesture of total surrender. He bares the thin vulnerable skin of his throat.

He feels lightheaded, and God help him, he _wants_ to beg. Wants to beg the damned thing to offer him its wrist to suckle at once more. He closes his eyes, sees golden yellow flame rolling across midnight blackness in endless waves. Dean bites back the words_…want…__please...more…_

"I came to you more than once when you were a baby, you know." Dean's eyes come open in a slow blink. "We had… play dates while John worked at the garage. Before Sam was born." Those yellow eyes grow soft at some fond distant memory.

"I could tell even then you had such promise. Then Sam was conceived, and six months after he was born I came aroundto see him.Mary tried to change the terms of our deal." Its voice grows hard, cold. Another smile again, all yellow madness and poisoned sunrises. "I tried to persuade her otherwise, but your mother was very stubborn, just like you."

"…b-bastard…s-she…l-loved us…I'm n-not l-like y-you…m'n-not…"

"Oh? You're not?" The Demon genuinely seems amazed by that. Its host raises an eyebrow as he leans forward. "River. Grove. Oregon," he whispers softly, pronouncing every word carefully to make sure that Dean hears, and Dean freezes.

Azazel smiles.

"Remember Mrs. Tanner? Remember how _good _it felt to pull the trigger on her? She begged, and she pleaded, and you, my boy, didn't hesitate. You stepped up to the plate and you got the job_ done_. You were right on the edge of Becoming, all on your own, if it hadn't been for Sam's meddling. Remember?"

Dean's eyes widen as old yellow eyes imitates Sam's voice perfectly: "_You might kill an innocent man, and you don't even care. You don't act like yourself anymore, Dean. Hell, you know what? You're acting like one of those things out there…" _

The Demon grins happily as Dean's eyes roll back into his head. "Finally got past the blood brain barrier into that stubborn brain of yours, huh? Relax, Dean. Stop fighting it. Won't be long now."

"…p-please…"

The Demon cocks its head to one side. "I'm sorry? What was that?"

God, he couldn't hate himself any more than the way he hates himself now.

Dean closes his eyes. "…p-please…"

Azazel pats Dean's sagging shoulders in a grotesque gesture of comfort. "Ah, you know I never could refuse you anything, kiddo." It shrugs, and kneels down.

" 'course, you've never asked me for anything _before_, but still…" It jabs its host's thumbnail into the vein in his wrist to start the blood flowing again and its eyes flash with pleasure as Dean fumbles at its wrist with numb, clumsy fingers, pushes his mouth hungrily against its skin.

The surge of blood into his mouth makes him tighten his grip as he suckles. The Demon reaches out and idly cards the short hair at the back of Dean's neck. It closes its eyes and lets out a contented sigh of pleasure.

After a few moments it stands up and pulls its wrist away. Dean stares up blankly, a glazed look in his eyes, his lips rosy with blood. He sways on his knees and it puts its hand on Dean's face, cupping it with the palm of its hand. Dean leans into the touch and closes his eyes. Memories of life on the road hunting slowly flicker behind his eyelids, break apart, then fade away.

Making love to Cassie. Hunting that shtriga down in Fort Douglas, Wisconsin. Driving the Impala across country, "Back in Black" making the warm bright spring air throb, Sammy riding shotgun.

Dean struggles to hold on.

Then he wonders why he even bothers to.

Mom's gone. She wouldn't have done whatever she did if it hadn't been for _him_. Dad traded his life for_ him_. And Sammy…

_Oh God…Sam, _Dean thinks_, I'm a fuck-up. A total fuck-up. I let Dad die. Mom. I always fuck up, and I always let down the people I love. At least I brought Sammy back. Made the deal…won't be so bad…he'll be better off without me…he can have normal like he wanted all along…_

Dean's heartbeat levels off, slows down. He takes deeper breaths, his lungs hitching at first, then smoothing out to a slower, deeper rhythm.

There's nothing left to fight for anymore. He's done.

It's like going to sleep. Fatigue wraps around Dean like a thick, heavy blanket. He blinks slowly, once twice. Another slow blink, and everything turns yellow.

"You're special, Dean," the Demon leans down, whispers in his ear. "They all left you because of that, it's why you've felt like a freak your whole life. I didn't lie to you back there in that cabin. That's why you needed them more than they needed you."

Black smoke glides through the night air, around them, between them. Inhuman faces swirl through the smoke, and the faces smile happily. Their eyes are large and sunken, and their mouths gape impossibly large.

"You needed better," Azazel whispers softly. "You needed more. You needed _us_."

Sam Winchester moves up silently from behind, with all his natural grace and the considerable skill John Winchester ever taught him, and it's still not enough. Sam quickly scoops up the Colt and as he raises his arm to aim it the Demon turns and gestures at him.

Sam slams backwards into that dead trunk slanting up out of the ground behind him. He's pinned there, struggling, but he's got a death grip on the Colt and he won't let go of it, even though Azazel pushes Sam's arm with the Colt back down next to his side.

"Hello, _Sammy_." The nickname sounds like a curse word. "We're having a Kodak moment here, sport. Do you mind?"

"Dean?" Sam sounds uncertain, unsure.

Sam's eyes narrow as he sees Dean's face. Dean's eyes blink open at the sound of Sam's voice. God help him, there's a yellow glow in Dean's glazed eyes that snaps and surges like an electrical arc.

Azazel smiles. "That old life he had with you is fading fast, Sammy, and so are you.Soon he won't even remember who you are. That's my gift to him. I can't have him distracted. This boy's got some _serious_ work to do. You're dead to him. You're dead, and he's mine. All mine. Always has been."

Sam groans. His grip on the Colt is rock steady and despite the downward pressure he won't let go. The Demon shakes his head in admiration. "John did one hell of a job training you boys. I tell him_ that_ every time I see him."

"Let him go, or I'll ---"

"Or you'll _what_, Sam? You'll _what_? Raise your arm and shoot Dean just to get _me_? Well, you just might. All of you didn't make the trip back, is that right, Sam? A little bit of conscience here, a little humanity there."

"You gotta be flexible and anticipatein this business, you know? After Jake offed you I figured Deanie here would wanna play Let's Make a Deal with the Crossroads Demon. She works for me. I own Dean's contract. His tendency to sacrifice himself is a pathetic little flaw that I used to my advantage. He's _so_ predictable. This way, I get him coming and going." Azazel laughs at the fierce expression on Sam's face.

"You still love your big brother, Sammy? Despite everything that's happened? I know I strung you along, but hell, boy, no hard feelings! It's what I do. There's room at the table for you too. All you have to do is drop that fucking toy pistol and take my hand. You can be with your brother. I'm all about family, Sam.You know that."

Sam stands there staring, and the thing shrugs its shoulders. "It's a limited time offer, Sammy boy. Operators are standing by to take your call. Hope you're not fooling yourself with that whole 'while there's life there's hope' crap. You really think you can save Dean? There's no hope. It's all designed to drive you meatsuits crazy."

Azazel backs up, and Dean stumble-steps right along, whimpering, following blindly like a puppet tangled up in its own strings. Behind them demons in black smoke form curve back and forth, up into the night sky. They're triumphant, and they're gloating.

They've won.

Sam's finger slips from around the trigger. His grip loosens. Azazel laughs as it glances out from behind Dean's head.

Sam snaps the Colt back up and fires.

Everything slows down enough for Sam to see every last detail. At the last moment Dean's head bobbles to the side. The last special bullet that Samuel Colt made glazes Dean's cheek and goes on to punch a hole right between Azazel's yellow eyes.

Sam's lips twitch into a grim smile. The Demon's skull is backlit by that strange pale light underneath its skin. Sam sees the yellow fade out of those eyes for all eternity, and his smile gets a little wider.

The black smoke screams out, shocked, disbelieving. It boils up into the sky and disappears. The wraiths vanish.

Sam ignores them all.

The Demon's arms drop limply to its sides as its body slides slowly down towards the ground. For a moment Dean's arms and legs are twisted up with the Demon's, but Dean untangles himself. He's on his hands and knees quickly enough, and he pushes off in the opposite direction.

_Away_ from Sam.

"Dean?"

"Dean?" Sam reaches out, puts a hand on Dean's back, and Dean lashes out with his left boot, catches him neatly in the midsection. Sam grunts as the wind is knocked out of him, and Dean lunges forward, scrambling.

Dean's making noises deep in his throat, guttural moans and whimpers, and those rough, desperate sounds scare the hell out of Sam. He's never heard his brother sound so afraid, so desperate.

Dean's shoulder slams into a tombstone (_Rebecca Gentry – Beloved Daughter_) and when he jerks around to face Sam his eyes are wild, unseeing. Yellow. There's a stripe of red flesh on the side of Dean's face, underneath his left eye, where the bullet glazed him.

"Dean?"

Sam reaches out, puts one hand on Dean's left ankle. Dean's face twists with fear, and he shrinks from Sam's touch. The dark gold in his eyes flares and recedes.

"S-Sammy?" Dean breathes, his voice rough with disbelief. "You -- you hate me _that_ much?"

"Wh-what? Dean, please, I didn't mean to hurt you --"

Dean kicks out again, catches Sam on the chin so hard the whole world explodes, white and painful.

**_000_**

**_End of part 1_**


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: Sam wasn't the only Winchester infant infected with the Demon's blood.

Disclaimer: If you've read this far, then you know I don't own them.

_**Little Boy Lost, Part 2 of 2**_

_**000**_

"I'll be damned," Bobby Singer says quietly later as he stands over Sam. Shoulders slumped, Sam sits wearily with his back up against Rebecca Gentry's headstone.

"I'll be damned," Bobby says again, softly.

"I probably am," Sam says hoarsely as he looks up at Bobby. Sam looks old, tired around his eyes. "Bobby, I lost Dean."

_**000**_

That buzzing sound gets into his head, digs deep into the aching soft grey matter of his brain, and he's so damn tired his bones ache with it. All he wants to do is just lay there on his side, in the grass, underneath that deep black sky, curl up and sleep, but he knows he can't. There's too much going on inside that head of his, all those images running loose, colliding with each other.

Mom burning on the ceiling, the weight of Sammy in his arms.

Dean's too small, so scared, but he runs, he runs like Daddy told him to.

The sweet smoky smell of his mother's burning flesh.

Two of his ribs snap like dry kindling wood as he's thrown into a wall by a fugly for the very first time.

Sam's face twists with hate as he shoulders his duffel, slams the Impala's door way too hard. "You want to waste your life being Dad's brainwashed little toy soldier, Dean, then that's fine by me. Don't call me at school. Don't come by."

Dean can smell the dusty dead air of Roosevelt Asylum, heavy in his lungs. His chest aches. His mouth fills with the acid taste of fear.

"No, the rock salt won't kill you," Sam snarls, and he's smiling, "but it'll hurt like hell."

Dean's face hurts. Blood runs from his nose, down into his mouth, and Sam hits him again.

Harder.

Sam draws back his fist again, and his knuckles are slick with Dean's blood. Sam's smiling, wide and easy, and Dean wonders who's _really_ driving in there, wonders exactly what he did to make Sam hate him so much.

"You're worthless, you know that? I can see it in your eyes, Dean…"

The side of his face hurts, and he sees Sam standing there with the Colt in his hand.

"Dean, I didn't mean to hurt you---"

And Dean doesn't believe a word of it.

He wonders why every time Sam hurts him, Sam seems to enjoy it way too much.

He wonders why he _lets_ Sam hurt him.

…_freak…_

That taste, that sweet hellish taste floods his mouth again, but this time every muscle in his body clenches and tightens up, and he rolls over onto his hands and knees. That's as far as he can get. His brain throbs against his skull like it wants out in the worst way.

…_m'a freak…_

The ground underneath Dean trembles, ripples outward from his body. Trees nearby shake violently, thick ancient branches snap like twigs. Heat radiates outward from his body, shimmering in the air around him, and the grass around Dean scorches, goes from green to charred black in a matter of seconds.

_..and everyone who loves me, leaves me…_

Dean's mouth opens in a silent scream as he claws the ground underneath him. He's lost everyone. Everything.

Mom died, and whatever she did, good, bad, or indifferent, she did for him.

Dad made that damn deal with that fucking demon, and died in Dean's place.

His brother hates him, hurts him, leaves him every chance he gets, and Dean can't understand why. Can't understand what he did to make Sam hate him so, can't understand why he needs them more than they need him.

_Can't understand why he can't make them stay. _

Yellow heat rises up behind his eyelids. Dean struggles to pull air into his lungs. His heart contracts once, twice, as the adrenaline rush hits him hard.

He thinks of his Mom tucking him in at night. She kisses his forehead, and her lips are soft against his skin. He thinks of his Dad, can even smell that faint spicy aftershave he'd always wear, and his heart aches as he remembers the strength in those arms whenever Dad hugged him.

Long slim fingers caress the side of his face. Dean startles violently. Vision's a blur. He can't see who this is. He smells a familiar clean scent, but it can't be, it just can't, and can't focus just yet. Everything swims around him in a slow smeary blur.

When his sight sharpens to crystal clarity Dean forgets to how to breathe.

Mom.

And Dad.

Dean kneels there, shaking and shivering, and he flinches backwards as John raises one large hand towards him. Dean stares at the hand fearfully, the whites of his eyes too bright. He glances at Dad, and their eyes lock.

_Dad…you're scaring me…_

The skin around John's eyes crinkles slightly, his lips upturned into a slight smile.

_Don't be scared, Dean._

Dad drops his hand onto Dean's right shoulder, and God, that feels so good, so _right_, he'd missed this, and it costs to much to even fight whatever this is anymore, to even wonder what the fuck is going on. Dad's broad fingers tighten, familiar and comforting, and Dean leans into the touch, wearily, gratefully, as Mary smiles and comes towards him.

Mary cradles Dean in her arms and she murmurs softly as she brushes his forehead with her lips. Dean settles into her embrace and it's like coming home.

They're _here_. They're really _here_. He didn't screw up after all.

"It's all right, baby," Mary whispers in Dean's ear. "It's okay. No more hurt, I promise. No one will ever hurt you ever again."

"We'll never leave you, son," John rumbles softly. "Never."

_**000**_

Sam parks the Impala at a distance away from the house. He waits until Bobby's gone into town some hours later before he can finally unlock the door to the backbench and pull that pot-bellied pig out by the rope around its neck.

He drags it kicking and squealing to the farthest part of the yard, near the chain link fence next to the woods. Sam ties it to the fence and scratches out the sigil in the dusty brown earth. He slashes the pig's throat with Dean's Bowie knife, and douses the triangle with the blood.

Sam runs his thumb along the ultra-sharp blade of his own Kershaw knife, and sprinkles his blood over the pig blood. He sets fire to the small bundles of wormwood and mugwort set at the three corners of the sigil, and then he stands back and waits.

They'd always gone a little blue collar, "a little ghetto with the spellwork," and improvising has always worked so far. This was a summoning spell that Sam found in one of Bobby's dusty old books. He went to one of the local farms nearby and paid enough to convince the farmer to part with the animal.

Sam needed something large enough for the ritual.

And besides, he couldn't use one of Bobby's dogs for the ritual. He wouldn't. Bobby was suspicious enough as it was.

Blood may call to blood, but moments later Sam's grateful to whatever gods there are that what answered the call _wasn't_ Dean.

It rocks back and forth on eight long, spindly legs. The head resemblesa shrunken, slightly lopsided baby's skull. Leathery grey skin stretched too tight over the bones of its body, and its glossy black eyes are way too big. As far as Sam can see it doesn't have any ears, just holes in the sides of its head.

The mouth is a wet slick slit, but Sam's not fooled by its goofy, gangly appearance. He sees the flash of sharp, needle teeth inside that mouth as it looks up at him, and he has no doubt that this critter could do him some major league damage if he ever allowed it to latch onto him.

It tilts its head down, folds those long legs downward, like a giraffe taking a drink at a waterhole. It laps delicately at the blood splatter, closes its eyes, and sighs happily.

"You taste good," it chirrups.

"My brother," Sam says slowly. "Why isn't _he_ here? What the hell _are_ you?"

The fugly blinks long eyelashes at him. Its voice is shrill, high-pitched, deceptively child-like. "…pretty little lost boy…thinks he's with his mommy and daddy. Doesn't wanna talk to you. Doesn't wanna get hurt again. Pretends not to listen. La-la-la-la…." It sticks the ends of its two front legs into the holes on the sides of its head and rocks back and forth from side to side.

It unstops its ears and looks up at Sam as it sticks its chin out proudly. "I got many mouths to feed. We came up from the hot place. We follow him around, and he pretends he doesn't see us. We hide. Pick up the scraps. Wet stuff. Burned stuff. Bits and pieces of the souls he shreds. Good eating. Best provider we've ever had. Follow him around forever."

That's about as good as it gets. The damned thing either can't or won't tell Sam where Dean is now, and Sam gets tired of it rather quickly.

And even though he won't admit it, being around this critter is freaking him out. Big time.

The thing squeaks and bares its teeth when Sam grabs it with his mind and snaps its neck. He can't stand the slick oily feel of its skin against the surface of his mind, and it's finally a relief when the lighter fluid catches as he salts and burns the carcass.

_**000**_

Special Agent Reidy drops the folder down on Victor Hendrickson's desk and just stands there.

Hendrickson looks up and quirks an eyebrow at him. "What's this?"

"Got somethin' for ya. Look at it."

Hendrickson idly leafs through the folder, sees the crime scene photos, and sighs. He doesn't see either Dean or Sam Winchester's dead faces staring up sightlessly at him, so he promptly loses interest. "So?"

"Twelve guys. Twelve dead guys in the last three weeks. Different states, different cities. Same MO each time. Necks were broken, twisted all the way around so that the head is facing backwards."

"I'll say it again. So?"

"It's a weird thing, used to be done to traitors, back in ancient times. It's weird. Your boy Dean does weird."

"Yeah. Got any witnesses?"

Reidy sighs. "No."

"Any evidence that Dean is even connected to this?"

"No." Reidy tries again. "Another weird thing, though."

"What?"

"The general description of all the vics match Sam Winchester. White males. Tall. Shaggy dark brown hair, hazel eyes."

"But it's _not_ Sam."

"Uh…no."

"Nice try. Bring me something I can really_ use_, huh?"

_Damn,_ Reidy thinks to himself as Hendrickson turns away. _He sure does get bitchy early in the morning without his coffee. _

_**000**_

They spend a glorious month at a condo down in the Florida Keys during the summer. Dean's tanned, his hair bleached by the sun. He's relaxed and happy, and he looks like he belongs.

He waves at the next door neighbors when they see him. They're friendly enough. Nice couple, with two kids and a dog. He feels bad when he visits them the night he and Mom and Dad leave, but he's not about to leave any live witnesses behind.

Dean wipes the place clean of prints before he starts fires in both houses.

Dad decides that they'll stay down south for a while, out of the cold. It's all good.

Dean goes out on hunting trips with Dad, but it's not _exactly_ the same as it was before. Dean does live captures now, less killing, but he still does_ that_ on occasion.

He brings in beautiful blonde females for Mom and burly, dark-haired males for Dad. Their bodies wear out and get damaged sometimes and they have to be replaced.

Dean's happy to do it.

Some of the ones he captures try to lie their way out of it. They tell Dean that there's no one there. They beg him to stop.

He never listens to them because it does bother him sometimes, and just when he begins to doubt himself Mom is standing there beside him, radiant as an angel, and Dad is right beside him. Dean can feel Dad's hand on his shoulder, solid, rock steady.

Dean ignores the things he sees out of the corners of his eyes. They scurry around low to the ground and he knows they're things that he and Dad and Sam used to hunt.

Dad and Mom don't notice them, so Dean ignores them too.

It's his life now. It might be different from what Dean remembers before, but it's all he has, and it's more than enough.

Mom and Dad are back. Dean doesn't understand why or how, but he doesn't question. They're_ back_, and they're_ not_ leaving.

_Ever._

For the first time in his life they need him more than he needs them, and he does whatever they ask of him, willingly, eagerly.

But the ones on the street that look like Sam, well, that's something Dean does for _himself._

Ungrateful bitch. Sam _hurt_ him. Sam_ left _him, so Dean makes Sam _leave_.

Over and over again.

-30-


End file.
